A year later, you called me and told me you wanted a closer relationship with me. I cried, “Of course. I want that, too.” “But I don’t want to live in the past,” you said over the phone. “I can’t go back to that dark place. I want to move forward.” “I want to move forward, too, Mummy. But I am a writer. I have to write about my life, too, to make peace with the past.” As briefly as the door between us opened, it shut again. “Okay,” you said. “Never mind.” It was the last time we ever dared reveal ourselves to each other.
